


Bleeding Out

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blood and Injury, F/F, Fridget, Hallucinations, Injury, One Shot, Season/Series 06, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15346554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Having narrowly escaped the police, Franky Doyle remains on the road. Slowly bleeding out from an untreated wound, she finds Bridget Westfall to be her personal savior, only to realize that she's not really there. [An alternative take on their scene together in 06x03.]





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

> When I first watched the episode, I assumed Bridget was a hallucination until it was cleared up for me. This was where my mind wandered. Rest assured, the Siken quote doesn't allude to Franky's death, but her fears more so. Enjoy.

 

> “You will be alone always and then you will die.” - _Litany in which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_ , Richard Siken

One minute, Franky Doyle evades the entire police force and the next, she finds herself hopping a fence, taking a bullet, and crawling back to the miserable den that’s become her makeshift home. It happens faster than a televised cold case. She loses track of time, her stopwatch idly beeping in her messenger bag.

All impulse and adrenaline, she bolts, more wild than a mad hare. Crawling back to the start, she uses the last surge of energy. Sore muscles carry her along despite the protest that everything _hurts_. The door to the box car groans and seals her inside. With a whimper, Franky staggers. Her spine hits the wall as she slides to the ground, her bum sure to be bruised from brutal force. She’s covered in black and blue and not just ink.

The bullet sleeps in her shoulder. Christ, she’s in too deep. 

Everything feels hazy, blurred around the edges. Franky grits her teeth. She clutches her bag for dear life, clawing at the fabric which feels coarse beneath her touch, her body wrought with tension. Common sense kicks in. She lets go to apply pressure to the wound. She squeezes much too hard. It’s a throb and an ache, an ache and a throb. Bite, bite, sting.

Since her vision’s gone to shit, her decree of innocence lies out of reach. Tears compromise sticky, hot pain. Mascara bleeds in clumps as it gathers on her lashes and cheeks. Green eyes seem dim, grim. A scared, screwed up little girl reflects on all that’s been said and done. Would she die quietly and still so young? The thought terrified her.

Her case - evidence collected in notes, in dates, in photographs - rests in a worn rucksack now tossed aside. There are no vagabond attempts to pry it from her dirtied, cold fingers. Not today

Solve the case, absolve her guilt: that had been the mission, but somehow, the mission has become a mess of a situation. Her life’s become a cheap plastic criminal justice show abused by Hollywood. She wants to laugh. All that comes out is exalted breath.

The valley of darkness turns out to be a box car. Who would’ve thought? Death stared her in the eye before. This is nothing new. She’s survived a great deal: Ferguson’s fucked up machinations, Jacs Holt, her tango with Red, Mike and the hot grease that sprayed the air and left him vengeful. Hell, even Iman with her kite turned shiv. Now, her innocence and freedom dangle just out of reach.

Dust cakes the floor. It stains her clothing, contaminates the puddle of blood which appears to be an awful lot like mud. Pressed against the tinny wall, her back creaks from a dreadfully painful ache. Her bones lack marrow. Rather, they’re filled with emotion. She feels too intensely and buries it all. Anger, Franky Doyle finds, is a powerful fuel. A curled fist lashes out; her knuckles will bruise, too. She's damaged the cartilage. Her jaw clicks, her leg jitters; it’s never a good idea to hold still. Yet, her eyelids grow heavy.

Seeing red, her golden dreams have been shot to hell. There’s blood everywhere. How much _did_ she lose?

Her Florence Nightingale isn’t there.

Complete surrender looming in the distance is a laughable thought. She hears the creak of an opened lid and the fresh smell of pine. She remembers the pitch black, how it wasn’t cold, but hot and _humid_. The rattle of the chain-link fence reverberates inside her skull. Her ribs threaten to splinter. When you’re in agony, exaggerations soothe as a proverbial salve. 

She didn’t want it to end this way. Deep down, Doyle realizes her coffin fate from one box to another.

Franky wishes herself away: somewhere safe, somewhere warm.

Gasping, her eyes snap open; Franky withdraws her fingers from the pulsing wound, sticky and wet. She hisses and clenches her jaw, her brows furrowing, her face a mask of pain. Crimson streaks and smears mark this shady place. Feelings of helplessness wash over her. She refuses to give in, to give up. Blinking, a figure comes into blurry focus. Bridget Westfall.

Bad Luck trails after her, akin to a yapping little dog that has a penchant for biting ankles. Her wounded heart squeezes within her chest. She clutches her stained shirt which bunches beneath flexed fingers.

“Gidge?” She inquires faintly.

Bridget clutches her cane and staggers along, still maintaining some semblance of grace. Her angel of mercy offers a glowing smile. Garbed in a floral blazer with a soft turquoise blouse, she brings her best self. Her hair’s spun gold. Franky wishes she could capture it: a single lock, this moment despite the underlying urgency.

Girlhood’s insecurities strike a chord. Desperate for contact, Franky reaches out. A degenerate with trust issues has come a long way. Those she would miss: dear, old dad and her little sister and Gidge. Mum could fuck off for all she cared.

The way Gidge touches her feels reminiscent to a ray of light. Hope kindles a burning heat in her chest. It’s not the same fire that ate away a part of Wentworth. Knuckles graze her cheek. She clings to Bridget like a lifeline. She was and always has been her saving grace.

She falls for the hallucination of presence: hook, line, and sinker. It feels so real; Bridget’s thumb moves in small, reassuring circles, caressing her cheek. Then, the underside of her chin. At ease, her shoulders slump down. Blistered by the sun, she’s scalded. Her face flushes, raccoon eyes wild and panicked. She feels as if a bat landed square on her chest. Nothing compares to battery in prison.

“Take something for the pain,” Bridget tells her what to swallow. The pill bottle rattles. The taste of chalk causes her to grimace, then wince.

“Exsanginuation,” Gidge declares with ludicrous certainty to make it sounds like a spell. She wants to laugh since it’s as absurd as transference, but she gulps, her throat parched, her tongue swollen. Franky doesn’t want to believe it’s the case so she asks for clarification, wide-eyed and petrified. “You’re bleeding out, baby.”

 Franky swallows the lump in her throat. Chokes on it. Cough, cough. Wheeze.

“No, no, no. Fuck no!” She protests.

She paws at the familiar floral print.

Bridget smiles sadly which only serves to tear Franky Doyle apart.

Nimble fingers run through the shock of dark hair – a soothing gesture often enacted during the late hours of the night where both women are too restless to sleep.

 “I’m not really here, Franky,” the psychologist whispers, her breath as cool as autumn nipping at her ear. There, she offers a ghostly kiss.

“Don’t leave me like this,” she feebly croaks out.

Her lover recoils, the air still humid yet lacking. Franky's curled hands fall down, her head lowered by proxy.

Waning pleas fall upon no one.

This tin box is just another hellish cell.


End file.
